


Flowers from Sherlock

by Phoenix_Rose



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mentions of Assasination, Mentions of Murder, References to Suicide, mentions of abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-28
Updated: 2016-07-28
Packaged: 2018-07-27 08:35:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7611121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoenix_Rose/pseuds/Phoenix_Rose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes: Consulting Detective; violin extraordinaire; high functioning sociopath; fluent in Victorian Flower Language...<br/>Hang on!</p>
<p>After an order from the good Doctor Watson reminds Sherlock of the Victorian Flower Language, the Consulting Detective discovers a whole new way to give insults. And perhaps, a whole new way to admit his feelings.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Hi! This is my first ever attempt at fluff, so let me know what you think! Obviously I don't own anything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Geraniums for Anderson

“No John, I am absolutely not buying Anderson flowers.”

 

Famous last words, mused Sherlock as he stomped moodily into the florists. Slapping some money (probably far too much) on the counter, he turned to glare at the back of John through the glass door. Why, of all the punishments in the world, did he have to buy flowers ( _ flowers! _ ) for the idiot Anderson? It was awful, it was horrible and it was completely and unbearably mundane. And he didn’t need to give Anderson another reason to open his mouth and significantly lower the IQ of three quarters of Britain, whilst having a mild effect on the other. Which was why he had, at John’s suggestion, purposely spilt a tub of highly abrasive acid on the kitchen counter, which then dripped onto John’s jumper. The jumper had it coming though - it was frankly criminal how ordinary it was.

 

It hadn’t got him off flower duty.

 

Sherlock gave a huff at the memory and stared unseeing at the list of flowers which had been placed in front of him. It was a shame Anderson didn’t have any allergies to flowers. The universe didn’t like him enough to give Anderson  _ any  _ easily exploitable allergies. So it wasn’t even like he could accidently on purpose take him out of commision for a week! Dull. He gave a copyrighted dramatic sniff and picked the list up. John was sure to be looking, and if he didn’t look like he was doing it properly, Captain Watson would come into play. Captain Watson had a habit of yelling and was now used specifically when a certain Consulting Detective didn’t do what he was told.

 

_ Forget-me-nots _

_ Daisies _

_ Sunflowers _

_ Geraniums _

_ Daffodils… _

 

Geraniums. A smirk grew.

 

One of the more annoying pieces of information in his Mind Palace was one he couldn’t get rid of. A childhood memory, rooted so deep that he couldn’t delete it. The Victorian Flower Language. He could blame Mummy for that, when he was five she’d gone off on a gardening tangent that lasted a whole month. She had then insisted on giving every relative and friend a bouquet relating to their personality. (One thing you could say of the Holmes family; they didn’t do obsessions by half.) Sherlock had been roped into helping choose, and thus the Victorian knowledge of flowers came into play. Geraniums had been awarded to his Uncle, because he’d been incredibly dull and taken them to the park and not played pirates. That had been an unforgivable crime, thus Geraniums.

 

And they were perfect for Anderson.

 

He gave Anderson the flowers on the next case. His jaw had fallen and Donovan had stuttered and starred, whilst Lestrade looked as if he should fate. He’d soon grown sick of it.

“John insisted I apologised via flowers. Therefore, Geraniums. If you’d be so kind as to lead on Detective Inspector? I would like to see the body before you completely destroy all there is to find off it.”

 

At the case after, Anderson seemed highly annoyed. Sherlock smirked, knowing he’d found the card within the bouquet. A web address, one that translated the elegant language of flowers. No doubt he’d taken slight offence. He couldn’t think why. After all, he was always telling him the fact. It wasn’t hard to find the entry for Geraniums, it was there, broad as day.

 

_ Geraniums - Stupidity _


	2. Meadowsweets for Donovan

 

It didn’t take long for Sherlock to realise that flowers were the perfect way to insult people without John noticing. John didn’t know the language (John didn’t know any languages save English and text) thus he couldn’t take away experiment privileges. Which was good, because Molly had recently dropped of the head he required for the latest experiment,  _ and  _ given him permission to hit a new corpse with his riding crop. It would be almost as good as a triple with no motive and a fourth due within days.

 

He needed his experiments for the most recent case, which was unfortunately not a triple with no motive and a fourth due within days, but rather a single with obvious motive on a one off basis. Dull. Anyone with half a brain could solve it, which of course was why Scotland Yard were having so much trouble.

“Can’t you see it was the wife? Look at the way her skirts folded! And her wedding ring! For God’s sake, even Anderson should be able to see that!” 

He stormed off, Donovan’s yells of ‘Freak!’ and her lamentations at how he could never be bothered to stick around echoing in his ears. 

 

His commanding figure made it easy to summon a cab. He almost said his address, but then changed his mind. No, he had a much better idea.

“Madam Rosmerta's Florists.”

He let a smirk cover his face.

“Wait for me here. I’ll need you shortly.”

(It was odd really, that he trusted cabbies so easily after certain events. Then again, the odds of another Serial Killer who was so intelligent and talented were slim. And he certainly wouldn’t let another take him, not this time. Even though he was in complete control of the situation and knew exactly which pill was the right one.)

 

It took him five minutes, too much money and a brief pouting moment to get the right bouquet for the dear Sergeant Donovan. It reflected her perfectly, it was literally made for her! He soon found his cabbie again, and paid him to take him back to the crime scene.

 

Twenty minutes later (allowing for a slight detour to check on the Homeless Network) he was presenting the flowers to Donovan and making his dramatic exit with John. Collar up, nose in air, look of disgust and a billowing coat. He could visualise what was going on.

 

Anderson was staring at the flowers, remembering his bouquet. He would take his lover aside and pull up the website on his phone, the website he had for some bizarre reason saved. He would explain that his bouquet had held a secret message - Victorian flower language. A look of understanding would grace Donovan’s face, and perhaps one of relief as she realised that the Freak wasn’t being nice to her. They’d scroll down until they found the correct picture, and then they would scowl, realising exactly what he was implying.

 

Sherlock smirked, knowing that by now they’d have found it.

 

_ Meadowsweet - Uselessness _


	3. Orange Lilies for Mycroft

Sherlock glared at the figure standing in the door.

“Good day brother mine.” His voice was silky smooth, betraying no emotion. “How is the diet going?”

A condescending sigh passed the lips of the elder Holmes, “Must you always be so childish?”

 

It didn’t take a genius to work out why Mycroft Holmes had graced the residents of 221B with his presence. A case. Most likely not even a five, but requiring enough legwork that Mycroft would try to pass it off to his younger sibling. That was the only reason he could possibly have to come here, unless it was to saddle him with taking Mummy to the annual ballet for once. Which would always be a no. Ballet visits were a no-go. The case… depended how many favours were owed.

 

Seven. He owed Mycroft seven favours. How had that happened? He hadn't owed so many favours since university! Which meant he had to take the case to clear one of them. Dull. It wasn't even a five. 

 

It was barely a two.

 

Took him three hours to solve the case, plus a day to apprehend the culprit. He'd run around London trying to catch the man, only to find that he was on a moped, and couldn't be caught on foot. Which put him in a rather foul mood, and made him highly resentful. He wanted revenge quite desperately, it was a shame Mummy liked him so much, else he could have had it over with so quickly. But Mycroft was the favourite, thus finesse was required.

 

Cake was out of the question. He'd already used that this month, and it wouldn't do to repeat himself. They'd think he was losing his touch! No, something he's never done before…

Ahah!

 

He rushed off, leaving a bemused John sat in the armchair, hoping his flat mate wasn't about to run after a murderer. Again.

 

Mycroft received the package through the mail. He was always cautious with parcels, too many people disliked him to be careless. But nothing seemed amiss, and this he opened it. Then he sighed, long suffering and annoyed. He knew who this was off, and he understood the message without the use of a website.

 

_ Orange Lilies - Hatred _


	4. Foxgloves for Lestrade

“Ah, Graham!”

Sherlock began his string of deductions, solutions and insults, totally ignoring the incredulous looks he received. It took barely five minutes to finish, before he went home. He wanted to go home quite desperately: the crime was obvious and his experiment was waiting. He actually had to get to the experiment quickly. (It was highly unlikely that it would explode and coat the surrounding area with three inch thick toxic dust, but he didn’t really want to take that chance. John might make him clean it up.)

He was halfway through the door when he heard the familiar call.

“It’s Greg!”

 

He smirked in the taxi. He knew Lestrade’s name - of course he did - it was just more fun to make them up and annoy him. You’d think he was used to it after all this time. But no. Everytime, without fail, he would yell his real name out to him as he left. It was rather amusing.

“How do you not remember his name?”

A sigh, the special ‘are-you-an-idiot-on-purpose-or-were-you-born-like-that’ sigh. John had piped up with that idiotic question. It was a shame, he’d had such high hopes for him.    
“Of course I know his name, John. Don’t be stupid, it doesn’t suit you.”

“Then why do you call him Graham? Or Gregson? Or… everything else?”

“Because those names are more interesting. And if I get into trouble I can use his real name and he’ll know something’s wrong. But mostly because I get bored.”

He smirked.

 

John didn’t smirk.

 

In fact, he didn’t seem very amused at all. He had that long suffering, exasperated look on his face, mixed with some form of steely determination. Most days Sherlock liked that look. It was the look he’d seen on their first case. It was the look he saw when he was trying to work out what on earth the world’s only Consulting two year old was talking about. 

 

However, it was also the look when he was trying to make the world’s only Consulting two year old apologise.

“Sherlock, you can’t annoy Greg just because you’re bored.”   
“I’ve been doing that so far.”   
“Well, you can’t anymore…” Doctor Watson thought a moment, then spoke. “You seem to like sending flowers recently. Go and get Lestrade some.”

A smirk dropped into a scowl.

 

Lestrade popped round again, two hours later. Another murder, but unconnected. It was boring. He didn’t take the case.

A quick cleared throat brought another scowl, and he reached behind the chair to give Lestrade a bouquet.

“John insisted. I am very sorry I misused your name even though I have been well aware of what it was for the last few years of working together.”

 

Lestrade gaped before closing the chasm and walking away. He did stop on the way out, however, to discuss a certain point with a certain Landlady who was definitely not the Housekeeper.   
“I agree. John has got him wrapped round his finger.”

 

Sherlock knew they were discussing it. He wasn’t a genius for nothing! But he knew they were slightly mistaken. Yes, he might have done what he was told, but there had been slight rebellion in his apology. Perhaps it was a good job John didn’t know the language.

 

_ Foxglove - Insincerity _

 


	5. Yellow Carnations for Moriarty

John left the flat, off to engage in his weekly battle with the self service machine. (Why he refused to use manned tills was a mystery even Sherlock Holmes couldn’t solve.) This, however, left the Detective alone for an hour and twenty minutes. Eighty minutes to turn over the latest case in his mind. What joy! It was only a shame that his faithful blogger wasn’t there. (He could bounce ideas off of Billy the Skull, but for some bizarre reason he’d grown to prefer John. Perhaps because he gave compliments.)

 

With over-exaggerated effort he leapt out of his chair, before climbing over three stools to reach the mirror. Pinned up there were pictures of locations, evidence, suspects and bodies. A map was also hung there, but that was mostly for show. The only map he required was in his mind, and he knew every street, every turn and every curb of London.

 

Straight away he could rule out three of the possible suspects. Why? They weren’t tall enough. This person was very tall, very tall indeed. You could tell from the length of the stride. Another one went. They were unhappy in their marriage, which made her alibi of being with an illegitimate lover at the time much more likely. The state of the marriage was visible through the jewelry. All the rest of it had been cleaned recently but the ring was filthy; state of her marriage right there. The inside of the ring was shinier than the outside from being worked off her finger. The only cleaning it got was when she took it off. Sherlock could also tell her alibi was true for eight more reasons, the most significant being that he went out and checked himself. But the deduction was still sound and relevant. He moved on to thinking of the practicalities. One of them couldn’t have been there and have got back home within the time of crime and questioning. One was unfamiliar with the area, certainly not aware of the hidey-hole the mutilated remains had been dumped in. That just left two. He sighed.

 

This was just too easy!

 

Later in the day, after questioning the pair of remaining suspects, he knew who had killed the poor victim. And he knew why. 

It may have looked like a drug deal gone wrong to start with, but it wasn’t. He didn’t tell anyone that though, they’d never have believed him. No, this was a confrontation to do alone.

 

The connection, of course, was to the web. The great spider’s web, holding half the criminals in London within it’s sticky grasp. The culprit had only been an outer fly. A pawn in the game he held with the spider, used to draw him in. Try and make him work.

 

It had been a failure.

 

He knew that. The great brain of his rival, his opposite, would never have counted something so mundane as a success. They both revelled in the unordinary, in being the best. Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes and Consulting Criminal Jim Moriarty, so good they had made their own titles. No way would Moriarty sink to such unintelligent brutality. Still, Sherlock reckoned he should really thank him for the  _ marvelous _ effort. The flowers would arrive at midnight. He didn’t think Moriarty would understand the message, but he did.

 

_ Yellow Carnations - Disappointment. _


	6. Red Roses for John

It had been a couple of years since he’d seen him. Since he’d jumped off of a roof and pretended to be dead to save his life. Yeah, he’d had other people to save, but he and Moriarty had both known it was John he jumped for.

 

_ I’ll burn the heart out of you… _

 

When he’d said that, his eyes had flown automatically to his faithful blogger. John was his heart.

 

He had wanted to return straight away. It had broken him to know he couldn’t, but he had to get rid of the network. Had to rid the world of the spider’s web. So long as it had been there, he couldn’t guarantee people’s safety. Snipers had been assigned to his friends. Very good snipers. Snipers who could kill via a hole in people’s heads before they knew they were hit.

 

He wasn’t a good sniper.

He had to get in close. Had to be right by them to hit them surely. He had to watch the light fade from eyes because he didn’t have aim good enough to hit from a distance. That was why he got caught. He failed. He was overpowered. He was tortured.

 

He spent months living off the memories. Memories of Lestrade and Mrs Hudson, who had been threatened. Memories of Molly, who had given him body parts and a way of survival. But mostly memories of John, who had taught him that caring  _ was  _ an advantage.

It had taken a while for Mycroft to rescue him.

 

The reunion didn’t go quite to plan. It wasn’t like he  _ meant  _ to interrupt a proposal. Honest! How was he to know that John would fall in love with… Mary. Mary. She was perfect for him, really. Nice and normal. Nice and boring. She didn’t seem the type to leave body parts in the fridge, or to run after serial killers before tea. Didn’t seem like she’d pretend to be dead for years.

 

He wished there had been another way.

So did his broken nose.

 

He’d gone home alone after that. The flat had never seemed so empty. Thank god it had never been sold. Mrs Hudson told him that John had promised to visit the next day, tell her how the proposal went. He knew what he had to do.

 

John was the sort of man who got very sentimental. Liked to reminisce. Most likely he’d come in here, into the old flat they’d used to share. That Sherlock wished they still shared. He just had to leave the message on the kitchen table - he’d see it.

 

He contemplated his error that night, as he prepared to leave. (He didn’t want to be there when John saw the message.) He’d been stupid. He’d expected to step right back into his old life, act as if he hadn’t ever gone. Pretend everything was the same. It couldn’t be the same. He and John… they were both different people now. John had watched Sherlock plummet off the top of a hospital. Sherlock himself had undergone months of physical and psychological torture. The resurrected Detective left before dawn. It wasn’t like he could sleep.

 

John did indeed come to the flat the following day. And he did what was expected, he visited the flat. And he did see the message. He had to sit down when he saw it, had to try and process what was being said. One single flower where the experiments used to live. He didn’t need to know the flower language to understand what Sherlock couldn’t say in person.

 

_ Red Rose - I love you _

 


End file.
